


Iron Sight

by BoMonster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Character Death, M/M, Monsters, Nazis, Slow Burn, Unhappy Ending, Violence, graphic descriptions of injuries and death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 13:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21508435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoMonster/pseuds/BoMonster
Summary: Alright, so basically this whole fic is the result of me having way too much time on my hands. I saw the movieOverlordwhile bored and looking for a dumb movie to stream one night and as soon as it was over I thought, “Haha, what if this was a deancas AU” and the idea for this fic was born. I then proceeded to read the original script (which is different from the final production script). This story is a Frankenstein mush of my favorite parts of the original script, the final one, and extra things to make it more fleshed out/a love story. Without further adieu I presentIron Sight,a mish-mash of bad scripts, historical inaccuracies, and two dudes chillin’ in a war zone, five feet apart because they’re not gay.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester





	Iron Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a sneak peek: the first chapter. :) Once the rest is ready, I'll start updating every Friday. I hope you enjoy!

**June 3, 1944**

**0100**

**Somewhere over France**

Castiel watches the charcoaled hand scratch the words  _ 82nd Airborne. Here to end the war. June 4, 1994.  _ into the green paint with a trench knife.

His stomach turns as the C-47 hits a wave of turbulence. It doesn’t matter if it’s his first jump or his thousandth, he still gets that same feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Tonight is no different.

Private Gabriel Milton turns around and stores his knife.

“Hitler’s already dead,” he says with a gummy grin, “He just don’t know it yet.”

Castiel refrains from rolling his eyes at the man across from him and busies himself with wringing his hands.

“Unless you shit yourself first, Novak, and the Fuhrer smells us comin’.”

Castiel stops his hands and rests them on the rifle strapped to him.

“Oh come on. Leave him alone, Milton. We’re all little worked up,” pipes Private Samandriel Alfred, Alfie for short. He’s almost 20. He’s got a camera he’s fiddling with and a blue sash on his arm.

“Anyways, you’ve got quite the trek if you’re gonna put one between Hitler’s eyes. We’re droppin’ in France.” It’s Private Garth Fitzgerald IV, but they all call him Fitz. He’s a gangly guy, but Castiel would trust him with his life any day.

He’d trust any of these guys with his life, no matter what they say or look like. It comes with the job.

“It’s just one short train ride from Paris to Berlin. Then,” Milton aims his fingers like a gun, “pop. We all go home.”

Home.

Castiel surveys the rest of the unit. 18 or so other guys just like him. No older than 23, their faces charcoaled black for camouflage, and all preparing for a jump straight into enemy territory. Some are scribbling their last words into journals or have their eyes closed in silent prayer while others recheck their gear.

But not Corporal Dean Winchester. He’d just joined their unit as a specialist. Explosives. There’s a lot of rumors floating through the unit about him, but the sergeant says he’s a good man. He relaxes against the wall to the cockpit, eyes drifting open and closed as lightning flashes in the window.

“Whatever. You got a stick a’ gum, Novak?” It’s Private Micheals on his other side.

He unzips his front pocket but the plane lurches again and the contents go spilling over the floor. A chain with a small, silver pendant on it and some gum.

Milton scoops up the chain. “What the hell is this, Novak? A good luck charm? Sorry to tell you, but you’re gonna need a whole lot more luck when we hit the ground and the Jerries start blasting us. It’s nothing like basic and hell, you barely made it through that!” They all laugh as Milton throws the chain back to Castiel. He places it back in the pouch with a shake of his head.

Fitz is looking out the window. There’s nothing. Just darkness.

“How many Krauts do ya’ think are down there, Cas?”

Castiel glances out the window. “Not enough.”

The guys laugh. “Look at Novak. Actin’ all tough!” one barks.

He looks to his right at Alfie who’s busying himself with his camera. He’s taking pictures of the guys in the unit when he notices Castiel watching.

“You wanna try?”

“No, I-” But Alfies already sliding the strap over his neck.

“Here, just-” Alfie gives him a quick crash course in how to use the thing. He snaps a few more of the guys before he aims the lens towards the corporal. The window frames him, giving him almost a halo. The lighting from where Castiel sits illuminates his handsome but war-hardened face. Straight nose, strong jawline-

“Point that camera somewhere else, Private. Unless you want the rest of the photos on that camera to be of the inside of your ass.”

Castiel jumps. It’s the first thing he’s heard the man say. His voice is deep, twinged with a slow, Texan lilt.

He lowers the camera, but his eyes still rest on the corporal’s reclining form

“I heard the sergeant say you were in Italy.”

“Been a lotta’ places. Now I’m here. Tryin’ to sleep.”

Castiel squints at the sleeping man, but leaves him be and returns the camera to Alfie. 

“Hey, Alfie, what’d you shoot before they shipped you off?” Micheals asks as Alfie gets the camera situated around his neck again.

“I’d just got a job with the local paper before all this. Miami Herald.”

_ “Miami,”  _ Milton says reverently, dropping his head back against the wall behind him.

Private Aaron Bass finally joins in. He’s been quiet for most of the ride, just scribbling into his journal. “They ever have you do any beach shoots with the girls in bikinis?”

“Sometimes.” The men laugh. Bass smiles and scribbles something down.

They’re all getting antsy. Looking from the dark lights next to the cargo door to the cockpit and back again.

“Micheals!” Milton yells over the din of the engine. “How do you say ‘You’re full a’ shit’ in German?”

_ “Du bist voll Scheiße!”  _ Micheals answers.

“Du bist vol sheeb!” Milton repeats in accented German. “How do we know you’re not a Jerry spy?”

“What? Has your mom been hearing me whisper Hitler’s secrets in my sleep?”

The men laugh raucously. Milton blushes a little after getting caught in his own game, but they all snap to attention when the door to the cockpit slams open.

“Knock-knock!” Sergeant Samuel Wesson calls as he steps out of the cockpit. Corporal Winchester opens his eyes but does not sit up.

The men stay quiet, unsure how to respond to the sergeant.

“I said, ‘Knock-knock!’” Sergeant Wesson calls, louder.

“Who’s there, Sergeant!?” The young soldiers answer.

“Me goddamit, so listen up.” Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees the corporal’s lips twitch into a smile. “General Eisenhower took the time to write you boys a letter, so you better do him the  _ honor  _ of listening to every word that comes out my mouth!”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

The sergeant unfolds a small slip of paper and begins to read. “‘Soldiers, Sailors, and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force!  You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hope and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.

Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely.

But this is the year 1944! Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of 1940-41. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. Our air offensive has seriously reduced their strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground. Our Home Fronts have given us an overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men. The tide has turned! 

The free men of the world are marching together to Victory!

I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full victory!

Good luck! And let us beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking.’” The sergeant folds the paper and stuffs it back into his pocket. “Now! I know you lot don’t have the foggiest clue as to what  _ beseech  _ means, so let me simplify our great general’s message: do your goddamn job!”

The Sergeant looks to his right where the corporal is still reclining. 

“Corporal Winchester is here to ensure just that. You’re lucky to have him and you’ll obey his orders as if it was my own beautiful voice coming out of his mouth, understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant!” Castiel answers with the rest of the unit and lets his eyes slide to the Corporal only to find him glaring daggers at him. He holds the man’s gaze firmly, looking deep into the green eyes in front of him. He finds himself wondering, for a split second, what the man did before the war but shakes it away. That doesn’t matter anymore. Castiel has to remember that.

“Corporal Winchester, are my young ladies here ready for what’s ahead?”

“They better be, Sergeant.”

Castiel tries to keep his focus on the mission, but the way the corporal is staring at him… Castiel looks back to the sergeant.

“Micheals, remind me of the drop point.” Everyone sways as the plane lurches again. Castiel sucks a breath through his teeth.

“The village of Cielblanc, France, sergeant!”

“And our target, Bass?”

“Radio-jamming on top of a church near the town center, sergeant!”

_ Has it always been this loud?  _ Castiel asks himself. The engine is roaring and a storm thunders in the distance. Castiel can barely think over the sound.

“And why would the Nazis put a radio-jamming tower on top of a church, Private Novak?”

_ Shit.  _ He hesitates. He can feel the corporal’s eyes burning holes in him. “Because… because they-”

“Good Christ almighty, Novak! Because they’re rotten sonsabitches, that’s why.” Castiel looks to the floor. “And rotten sonsabitches will do anything they have to do to defeat all that’s good in this world. So  _ we  _ have to be just as rotten as they are. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

“There are going to be one hundred and twenty thousand Allied soldiers fighting their way onto a french beach in 48 hours in the name of all that is good and pure,” the sergeant continues. Castiel silently pleads with whatever god is out there to make the corporal stop looking at him. “And they’re going to need air support. That air support is not going to make it through the Jerries’ defenses unless we take down that tower by 0-600 on June 6th. So what do you have to do?”

“Our goddamn job, Sergeant!”

“You’re doing this for all the soldiers, sailors, and airmen risking their lives for peace in two days. You’re doing this because every one of them is a brother, a husband, a father, a son… We are not going to let them down.”

“No, sir!”

The sergeant turns back to the cockpit. “Drop point’s ninety minutes out. Better get some sleep while you can.” And with that, he’s gone.

The men look around nervously. They speak quietly as some begin to pull their helmets down to try and get some sleep like the sergeant said.

Castiel drifts in and out sleep for a while, but his stomachs in knots as the thunder gets closer. He keeps his eyes closed in hopes that it’s nothing. A particularly loud boom finally rouses Castiel and he can’t avoid the truth anymore. It’s not a storm.

“We must be close. They’re louder,” says Fitz. Castiel nods simply. The plane lurches and the men are thrown back and forth.

He looks to the window and sees searchlights criss-cross the sky. Suddenly, 20 mm. shells streak past the window, exploding just shy of the plane. The men all hold their breath, waiting for one of the shots to ring true and blast them out of the sky. They’re silent, even Milton.

Castiel unzips his front pocket and takes the pedant out. He stares at the little coin on a chain glittering in the dirty palm of his hand for a moment before slipping it over his neck. He tucks it into his uniform just as another explosion rocks the plane.

“Maybe we should jump now, sarge… Before this shit gets any worse,” says Bass.

“Just a little Kraut hello. We sit tight ‘till the light tells us different.” Castiel looks to the unlit red and green lights by the cargo door. He keeps his eyes on them as the plane jolts left and right, explosions getting more intense. He’s willing them with all his might to change.

An intense white light engulfs the plane for a second before it lurches to the left and throws the men around the cabin like dolls. The cockpit door flings open and the pilot points at some piece of paper, yelling something but Castiel can’t hear what it is.

The pilot disappears and Castiel feels the plane bank hard left and down at a dizzying rate. Micheals loses his dinner onto the floor and Castiel can’t think.

It’s so fucking loud. Explosions ring in his ears, crackling of flak becoming the white noise of the cabin, and the noise of the engine is different. They all know it. The plane finally levels out.

Tracer fire lights up the cabin from the outside. Blue, green, red. Castiel looks out the window to see shells exploding closer and closer. They’re thrown around the cabin like rocks in a tin can.

And then, the familiar  _ tat-tat-tat  _ of machine-gun fire before it rips through the floor and Micheals. He’s dead before he hits the ground. Bass jumps toward him with a medkit, trying in vain to stop the bleeding. There’s no bleeding to stop. He’s pulled back from the aisle.

More fire rips through the floor and two more men fall dead around Castiel. He can smell the heady copper stench and the fuel of the plane. But the light has not changed.

“Settle your asses down!” Yells the sergeant. “It’s the job!”

Castiel didn’t ask for this. He tries to figure out what he did to deserve this. What cosmic entity he could have possibly pissed off to land him in the middle of the second World War. But then again, it doesn’t matter how he ended up here. Just how he gets out.

Finally, the red light blinks on.

“There it is! Hook up!” Castiel hears through the din. He stands on autopilot and clips onto the anchor line, trying in vain to conceal the shake in his hands.

They stand in line, waiting with their hearts in their throats and Castiel tries not to think about the blood sticking to his boots. Tries not to think about the almost unrecognizable carcass of Micheals at his feet.

“Let’s try to stay close, okay Cas?” Fitz says, eyes wide as he turns to look at Castiel in the dim light.

Cas gives him a nod.

“And if something goes wrong, promise me you’ll take me out before they get their hands on me.”

Castiel lets himself look down at the dead man at his feet. Sees the bone, the gristle, the blank eyes of a man he knew.

“Everything,” Castiel swallows hard, “everything is gonna be fine, Garth.”

“Promise me, Cas.”

Castiel’s mother warned him about making promises he can’t keep.

But Castiel can’t think. Not right now. Not over the sound. Not over the smell.

“I promise.” 

“I’ll see you on the ground.” Fitz smiles. Smiles as much as he can.

“I’m right behind you.” 

The light turns green.

Sergeant Wesson is pushing them out of the plane, one after another and Cas is almost through the door when he falls to his knees after a blinding flash rocks the plane.

He's being pulled back. Castiel looks over his shoulder to find that the rest of the plane is missing. Jagged metal glows hot and burns in places. He watches Micheals’ body roll down the aisle, sucked out the plane, leaving a gory red wake.

A firm hand heaves him out of the plane.

And he’s falling, tumbling, searching for his manual release. He knows it’s right on his shoulder but he can’t seem to find it. The wind burns his eyes and tugs at his uniform. He just can’t get a hand on it.

Suddenly, the shoot pulls and he’s jerked in the air as his fall slows.

And then he’s cold.

He can’t see.

He can’t breathe.

He’s sinking.

He hits the silty bottom of the river, but he doesn’t immediately go for the knife strapped to his leg. For a long second, he considers staying there. A peaceful death in a violent war. He’d be free.

He relishes in the quiet.

But his lungs begin to burn.

He pulls the knife and cuts the lines to his shoot, sheds what he must to get buoyant knowing he’ll be able to get whatever he needs from a less fortunate friend.

Castiel surfaces under his shoot with a gasp, waving his knife as he desperately tries to cut the fabric so he can breathe.

He paddles to the bank. Lays on the cold ground staring at the cloudy night. He could almost forget where he was if it weren’t for the rounds crackling overhead letting him know he’s spent too long in one place. He needs to move.


End file.
